I tossed a handful of peanuts into my backyard
attracting a trio of jays, screeching, screeching,
to my window where liquid notes spilled
from their throats as if from saxophones:
Salt Peanuts, Salt Peanuts, they sang from
slender twigs, their kews and jrrs and green arpeggios
reminding me of Gillespie and Parker and Powell:
Bebop and mimicry, sweet improvisation
mixed with the sifting sounds of cracking shells,
swift comings and goings, cartings for caching,
pianissimo of peanuts lifted through air.
And though Dizzy Gillespie could not have fathomed
his notes sung from speckled twigs, they became
part of spring’s swelling presence as three jays
asked me to provide the party food to celebrate
the genius of musical invention.